Tricks
by SummerLove16
Summary: Dean would kill him if he knew about the things he does in the dark to forget those eyes, but his father always taught him he was worthless.


Hey kids! So, for those who care, You Don't Know Me At All will be updated soon (I promise), but I just had to get this out of my system! Hope you enjoy.

...

He's seventeen the first time. Seventeen, close to graduation (closer to leaving), sitting next to Dean in the dim-lit bar when,

"Hey Pretty, you wanna go for a ride?"

Drops into his ear on hot, wasted breath, and he turns to say _no,_ (to say _fuck no, who the fuck do you think you are?_), but the wad of fifties in the man's hand entices him, reminds him of the possibility of _getting out of here. _And Dean's eyes are too glassed over to care (the way Sam hates him most), so Sam follows the man into the alleyway. Swallows around him, lets him trace fingers over muscles formed by years of hunting, looks him in the eye as he blows him, and it's hard (_so hard) _because the eyes that look down at him aren't the eyes he'd die to see, aren't the eyes that _haunt_ him as he drifts off to sleep. _Because they aren't Dean's eyes._

Stanford becomes his escape. And because his father taught him he is worthless, and Dean would hate him if he knew (_would kill him if he knew what he did in the dark to forget), _and because he needs to make rent this month and credit card scams are too risky staying in one place, and for a million other reasons, Sam keeps tricking. It's not so bad, really, the dim-lit alleys and shadowed faces. There's no reason for Sam to be scared—there is no one to care if he lives or dies.

It's not until the night he finally says no (_finally fights against his father), _and realizes he will always lose (he said _no, _and now the bruises from those two little letters line his ribs, arms, his body feels raw, as if it is being forced apart from the inside), that Sam begins to hate this life. Begins to hate himself, for what he did. Knows Dean will never forgive him _("I love you, Dean, I always have..."), _because those feelings are _wrongdirtybad _and Sam never should have confessed them at all (and especially not on the whispered breath as he hugged Dean goodbye, leaving him with shock in _those eyes_).

...

It's late, rain pouring down, catching the half light of the flickering streetlamp overhead in ornate golden beads that shatter as they hit the cement below (_shattered dreams_). Sam unlocks the door to the shitty apartment he can barely afford, slams it shut behind him, and tries desperately to pretend that his tears are drops of rain, pieces of the shattered dreams that have landed on his skin.

The sight of Dean, sitting in a chair, beer in hand, is so shocking that Sam stops short.

He's suddenly unsure, because he's imagined this scene _so many times_, and it's been _such _a long night, and he's suddenly unsure if Dean is real. And then Dean speaks,

"Hey, baby brother. Took me four goddamn years to track you down...what were you doing out this late?"

Because it's so obvious Sam hasn't been at a party, and the tears are a dead give away, and Sam is _scrambling _for a response to the words that are rough and sugar spun, and quite possibly the most comforting thing Sam has ever heard.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

And the words are sharp, not sugar spun or sexy like Dean's had been (_but then, Sam has never quite managed to measure up to Dean), _because Sam has to protect his (broken) heart, and because Dean knows him _so well_, and there's no way Sam will be able to hide the pain from his brother.

"I'm here for you."

And before Sam can process what Dean's saying, his back is hitting the wall, Dean staring into him_ with those eyes _that Sam never could forget and Sam is waiting for Dean to speak, waiting for him to finish those words. But Dean doesn't. Just watches him, staring into his _soul. _And Sam knows that if it's the last time he ever sees Dean he will never sleep again because those _eyes _will keep him awake. Finally, after what feels like _hours, _Dean murmers,

"I told you why I'm here. Where were you."

And it's more than Sam can bear to tell his brother where he was, or about the horrors he's faced on the streets (_far worse than any of the creatures they ever fought_), so he just shakes his head,

"Out."

And Dean, (thank _god), _seems to understand that Sam can't quite put words to the things he's missed over the last four years, and guides him to the threadbare couch, lies down, pulling Sam down against him.

Sam rests his head against Dean's chest, feels his brother's strength, his heat, seeping into his body, warming his very core, and thinks that maybe nothing has ever felt quite this _good_. But then again, Sam has never felt quite this _broken. _Dean places his lips gently against the top of Sam's head, breathing in his scent, and whispers,

"I'm here for you. Because I love you too."

And Sam's heart shatters, his chest aching as he thinks back over everything he's faced, and after all the _imaginingwaitingwishing, _Sam suddenly isn't sure he can love Dean the way he deserves to be loved anymore.

...

Poor Sam. ): I may continue this, we'll see. I more just wanted to try the style thing, so let me know what you think, yes? I appreciate it much-ly! (;


End file.
